The Right Tool for the Job
by Donnistar
Summary: Zim's turned Dib into a zombie and isn't sure what to do about it. Oneshot. Contest entry for Alohilani. :Finished:


_Alohilani advertised a little contest on Tumblr, and so I thought I'd try my hand at it. The prompt was a drawing of Zim in a lab coat under foreboding red light, looking nervously down at a tray of medical tools. This is just my derpy probably-too-Dib-centric interpretation. It's certainly not as good as some of the other entries in the contest, but I went through the trouble of writing it so I figured I'd put it out there. _

It had seemed like a simple idea. Elegant, almost. Zim had certainly tried similar things a dozen times before, with generally positive results.

Generally.

The test cells had responded well. They'd done exactly what they were supposed to – become still, sluggish, with slowed metabolisms and general lameness. Even that cat that GIR had caught and tried to eat had proven an effective trial run. It was doping its way around a containment chamber even now, acting lazy and dumb and eating Cheese Doodles that GIR poked through the cage bars instead of playing with its toys or solving the Rubik's Cube that Zim had left with it.

That was _supposed_ to happen to Dib. He was _supposed_ to get all not-smart and easy to deal with. Just a quick prick on the back of the neck with a hypodermic during lunch period was all it had taken. Theoretically.

It had worked a little bit, Zim thought. Dib had gotten limp and still just as he was supposed to. Only he'd gotten so still that his heart had stopped, and when it started again of its own accord, Zim had been stuck with this raving lunatic of a former-Dib.

A slavering and heaving growl sounded from the corner of the lab, drawing Zim out of his brooding. He twitched an eye over to the tube-like cage. Its glassy surface was fogged with hot breath as Dib pressed his face up against the curved safety plastic. No amount of smashing or clawing would break it – nothing of Zim's creation was so puny as to be threatened by the pathetic Dib – but he sure was making a go at it.

"Quiet! I need quiet, you infectious ape!" Zim snapped, half-turning, curling his fingers around the counter stretched out before him. The soft rattling of tools – a scalpel, syringe, forceps, surgical scissors – sounded out, well-muffled by Dib's incessant snarling.

Zim held one of his hands out over the tray. His palm shook badly, each fingertip quivering to a blur. The needle would come first. A deep red fluid bubbled inside of the glass syringe, shifting with every blow that Dib landed to the side of his cage or every shake of Zim's hand against the counter.

And if what was in the needle failed, then…

His fingers hovered over the scalpel.

"You know, Dib wouldn't bother with a cure first. He'd go right to the cutting," the computer put in, suddenly, making Zim spasm in surprise. Out of the corner of his eye Zim saw Dib gape dumbly up at the booming voice before resuming his clawing at the cage side.

Zim rubbed his sweaty palms against his lab coat, feigning disinterest. "Well, it's a good thing I'm the ALMIGHTY MERCIFUL ZIM, and not the weak-minded Dib-pig, yes?"

"I'm not sure if 'merciful' is the word I'd-"

"SHUT IT! Unlike the Dib, I can disconnect _your_ vocal circuits."

The computer fell silent, its moodiness obvious, the red surgical light of the lab dimming briefly as it turned its virtual attention to something else. All the better. Zim didn't always care for its opinionated spying on his work.

_Then again…_

Zim thought about the scalpel. He thought about taking frogs apart in science class. About the slick viscera spilling out, the sticky goo of blood, the reeking _smell_ of it. And always, always, Dib would say, "This will be you someday, alien!"

He felt his fingers tighten around the steel handle, cold and the tiniest bit soothing against his hot palm. This was what invaders did! They destroyed, they mutilated and tore apart and rent from the roots. They did not _cure_, and especially not their enemies!

His head ached as he ground his teeth together, nails sinking into his palm around the scalpel handle. Every muscle tight with frustration.

It was his doing that Dib was in this state to begin with, he supposed…

That wasn't an Irken Elite's thought!

But Dib was all wrong now. He was mindless and violent and he drooled on everything.

Fine! Just like every other primitive species on this planet!

No, this wouldn't do at all. If Dib was going to expire at Zim's hands, it should be in open combat or with flamethrowers. Not foaming at the mouth like a Saint Bernard.

Zim slammed the knifeblade down against the tray and immediately regretted it. The syringe popped up into the air with the force of his blow, threatening to fall to the floor. Panicked, flailing, both of Zim's arms shot out as he attempted to grab it. He felt a dip in his sqeedlyspooch as it nearly slipped between his fingers, but finally managed to get a grip on the slippery glass.

A little sigh slipped out from his teeth as he held the syringe close to his chest. He only had one shot. _They_ only had one shot. Quite literally.

Zim stalked over to Dib's cage, eyeing him critically. The dirty brown eyes followed him, crazed, the bloodshot whites around the pupils shining madly. Dib hadn't spoken in at least twelve hours – not any words that Zim could make out, anyway – mostly he just snarled, raspy clicking sounds escaping from back in his horrible throat.

The closer Zim got to the container, the more rabid Dib became. He scraped broken fingernails against the once-pristine glass, sliding down streaks of blood and sweat and saliva. Zim shivered all over at the thought of all the foul fluids that seemed to leak out of humans. Dib didn't seem to notice – he bared those tiny pointed teeth, smashing his bruised body against the side of the tank, roaring with an animalistic rage. Dib's typically pointy hair hung limp around his face, slick and shiny with sweat.

Fine. Zim was up for a challenge. He thought. He choked back a lump that was pressing against his throat, holding the syringe with a white-knuckled grip.

"Computer! Release the Dib from his cage!"

"What? Why? He's infected and extremely dangerous, Zim."

"Exactly. This serum should put him back to normal," Zim said, refusing to tear his gaze away from the foaming, thrashing _thing _that had been his proper rival only a day ago.

The computer sighed resignedly. "Alright. If you say so."

With that, followed by a hissing hydraulic click, the side of the cage slid open. Dib wasted no time in taking advantage of his new-found freedom – he hurled himself out into the lab, staring wildly around, before locking those watery brown eyes on Zim's shaking form and uttering the first word he'd said in nearly a day:

"Brains."

The word was rasping and incomplete. Zim felt his spine run cold, suddenly very aware of the horrible spittle leaking from Dib's mouth and his flexing, dirty fingertips. Or, at least, he was for a brief instant before Dib launched himself on the alien.

Zim snapped the syringe close against his chest, shooting out his Pak legs just as Dib landed face-first on the place where he'd been standing only seconds before.

"This is for your own good, Dib-filth! I'm warning you, if you don't – Hurgh!"

Without warning, Dib attempted to sink his teeth into one of Zim's spider-legs, nearly knocking him off balance. Zim felt the bottom of one of his boots connect with Dib's chest as he tried to fight him off, feeling trapped and vulnerable with his hands so occupied holding the syringe. With a bit of a flailing kick Dib stumbled back, barely deterred.

Dib shook it off, spitting a horrible glob of blood onto the ground, before curling his lips back and lunging at Zim once more. He tried to bite into Zim's exposed middle, jerking his head to the side as if he were tearing the hole out of a donut. Zim let his mechanical legs take over for themselves. The flat side of a pointed tip slammed up into the bottom of Dib's jaw.

His teeth came together in an impotent _click_. Hot, hissing breath snarled out between his clenched teeth, wavering down over Zim as he threw his arms over his face.

That was enough.

If he was going to fight with Dib, the stupid human had to at least be in his right mind first.

Zim reared the syringe back, one hand wrapped tightly around the barrel. The bottom quarter-inch of the needle disappeared into Dib's neck, long enough for Zim to press down on the plunger and shoot a dose of the serum into the disgusting human's bloodstream. He leapt a few feet back the instant it was done, scrambling across the floor, climbing up onto tables in an attempt to get away.

There wasn't any need. Dib went completely limp the instant that the fluid reached his heart, collapsing into a pale bundle on the floor. Twitching. Zim hitched back the corner of his mouth in a disgusted grimace. Somehow he managed to look even more freakish and gross now. Joints all bent backwards, eyes half-open and staring.

Crouching down against the counter, Zim held perfectly still. He tried to breathe deep and slow, letting the adrenaline leak out of his system as his Pak tried madly to regulate his hormone levels. It whirred very softly just behind his antenna, an understated whisper against his own gasping and the sound of Dib's occasional spasming against the floor.

How long should he wait?

Zim slid a glance over to the stack of tools on the counter, still lined up neatly sans the syringe. The scalpel gleamed in the cold laboratory light. Fingers twitching, Pak legs arched tensely around him, Zim wondered if he might be able to sidle around the lump of Dib in the middle of the floor to get to the tiny blade.

Out of the corner of his eye, Zim saw Dib start to stir. He snapped his head around, locking his shiny eyes on the human. Dib's color was changing ever so slightly, from the sickly corpse-like pallor he'd had before to something a little more pink. Must be that nasty blood-stuff starting to circulate a little better.

His eyes were open all the way now, those gross whitish orbs with the muddy middles focusing around the room in turns. Zim put up with this motion right up until Dib propped himself up on his elbows, rubbing at the side of his neck where the syringe had jabbed him.

"That's enough moving! Don't try anything!" Zim barked, panicked, and using his Pak legs as a lever he launched himself across the floor and socked Dib one full-on across the face with a tiny gloved fist. Pain exploded in Zim's thumb – he'd made the mistake of wrapping his fist around it.

"What in the hell did you do that for?" Dib yelped, reeling back.

"Me? Your stupid face broke my finger!" Zim growled, rubbing at his sore thumb and slumping down on the floor next to Dib. At least the human was talking now, he guessed – but the shot to the neck didn't seem to have done anything for his annoying voice.

"Ugh. I feel awful. My head-"

"Is abnormally huge? I agree, you skeeving monkey."

Dib gave himself a little shake, still glancing around half-dazed. "What? No. How did I end up down here?"

"You tried to eat Keef's foot. I brought you to my labs for supervision."

"Is that really true?"

Zim gave a little one-shouldered shrug. "Eh. Close enough."

_Blaarggh this is terrible and half-assed but I'm done with it. I didn't really write this so much with the intention of winning the contest as I did for an excuse to practice writing with a prompt. I've had the worst writer's block lately and I think it helps a bit if you write something you wouldn't normally think of. Anyway, I've been trying to work on one-shots as of late, so I guess this is a decent enough start. _


End file.
